


kicking stones down the road to hell

by notthebigspoon



Series: 37 Stitches [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim wants to be drunk. Actually, more accurate, Tim wants to be abso-fucking-lutely hammered. He thinks it's an appropriate thing to do. How the hell else are you supposed to react to the fact that your ex, who sometimes you still love like crazy, wants to get away from you so badly that he's gunning for a trade. He no longer feels like celebrating, no longer feels like a champion. He just wants to forget.</p><p>Title taken from 37 Stitches by Drowning Pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kicking stones down the road to hell

Tim wants to be drunk. Actually, more accurate, Tim wants to be abso-fucking-lutely hammered. He thinks it's an appropriate thing to do. How the hell else are you supposed to react to the fact that your ex, who sometimes you still love like crazy, wants to get away from you so badly that he's gunning for a trade. He no longer feels like celebrating, no longer feels like a champion. He just wants to forget.

He goes to the airport, tells them he doesn't care where he's going, he just wants a seat on the next flight out. When he gets put on a flight to LA, he shrugs and quietly goes to his terminal, boards without looking twice at anyone who says his name. He knows he's coming off as an asshole, but he's tired and he just doesn't care anymore. Not when he hurts this bad. Let the world hate him. He's alone anyway.

From the airport, he catches a cab to a hotel. He's only got one small suitcase. He's not even sure what he's brought with him, he'd just shoved things indiscriminately into the bag before zipping it up. He starts sifting through it. A decent amount of clothes. His laptop and tablet, the charges to those and his phone. His toiletry bag. The clothes are dirty. It must have been what he'd unpacked when he'd returned from Detroit. He'd never gotten around to washing it.

He sends it off to the laundry service, stretches out on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Now that he's here, he's not sure what to do with himself. He's good at that. Running away. He can run away from a problem and he never knows how to fix it. Most of the time he ignores things until they go away. He's rich enough and important enough that usually that's enough. But there's nobody to fix this for him. World Series or not, he's got a lot of teammates that are still mad at him.

He stares at his phone. Theriot asks if he's up for a beer. Campana telling him that he was going to back off for a week but then he expected Tim to be back to his routine. Well, there's that. Tim can lose himself in his workout routine, that always helps. And now that the season is over, he can go to his fights with a clear conscience, knowing that he won't have to worry about performing the next day or in a few days.

There's a few messages from various teammates and a few from his dad. He deletes everything without reading it, presses his phone to his lips and considers what to do. He's already destroyed everything in his life, might as well go out and try to forget about it. He makes sure he has his wallet and jams his phone into his pocket. He takes the elevator down to the lobby and heads out onto the street.

He's not picky and he has no aspirations of going anywhere fancy. He doesn't need to, not for what he has planned. He ducks into the first bar that looks kind of right and goes straight to the bar. He parks himself at the dark end and orders a flight of tequila. He keeps to himself, just watches his booze as he takes his shots, gaze occasionally flicking up to check the TV and his surroundings. The world is growing steadily more fuzzy. The pain is still there but it's dulled, on the edge of his periphery instead of staring at him head on.

“Lincecum.”

“Go away or I will punch you in the throat.” Tim mutters, finishing the flight. He doesn't care who it is or what tabloids this will end up in. He doesn't give a shit about anything any more.

“Now that ain't no way to talk to a friend.” The voice sounds amused. Tim looks up and then scowls. Fucking Kershaw.

“You wear blue. By default, you are not my friend.”

Kershaw shrugs and sits down next to Tim anyway. He waves a hand, points at Tim and they're both presented with fresh tequila. Well, Tim's not going to resist free booze. He salutes Kershaw before sucking down the shot and resting his head against his hand. A hand between his shoulders makes him look up again and he's surprised to find himself smiling the faintest bit at Kershaw. He's even more surprised to find himself actually talking to the guy and enjoying it.

They talk about the series, how it felt to just flat sweep the Tigers. What it's like to be a starter and a golden boy and be relegated back to the bullpen. Drunk or not, he tells Kershaw the same thing that he'd told himself, that it doesn't matter what job you're given. If you won't do it for yourself then at least do it for your team, because they deserve better than for you to give up just because you feel like having a tantrum. Everyone deserves better than for you to give up on them because you're angry.

He goes quiet after that, brooding and staring at his empty shot glasses. He'd order more but he's starting to think that maybe he's had enough. Then again, he's never been great at self denial. He's just as well to give himself what he wants. It's not like his life can get any worse. He starts to wave his hand, frowns when Kershaw's hand wraps around his wrist and stops him. He looks up at the guy, blinking owlishly.

“I thought I liked you, for a minute, even if you do wear stupid blue. Now I'm not so sure.”

Kershaw just laughs. He lets go of Tim and runs his hand up Tim's arm. Tim starts to ask what's going on but then Kershaw... then Kershaw is pushing Tim's hair out of his face and kissing him. He kisses just like he plays, competent to a fault and taking no prisoners. Tim groans and fists a hand into his shirt. Even sitting down he feels like he's going to fall over. Who cares if it's Kershaw. Who cares if he wears blue. Who cares about anything.

When Kershaw pulls Tim to his feet, says that they should find a place that they can be alone, Tim doesn't know any answer to give but yes. He nods, panting, runs his hands down Kershaw's chest before taking his credit card back from the bartender and signing the slip to pay for the tab he'd ran up. He can barely walk steady, finds himself leaning heavily on Kershaw as they leave the bar and head down the street to Tim's hotel.

They manage to behave themselves until they're in the elevator. Tim's not sure which of them is drunker but if he had to wager a guess, he'd decide it's definitely him. Kershaw's bigger, weighs more, and he hadn't had as much to drink as Tim. Well, Tim doesn't think he did. He'd kind of started tuning the world out halfway through those last few shots. What he does know is that the second the doors ping shut, he's gripping Kershaw's shoulders and yanking him down for another brutal kiss. Kershaw grabs Tim's ass, uses the grip to hitch him up and pin him against the elevator wall. It doesn't feel like they've had nearly enough time when the doors open on Tim's floor.

He lands on his feet with a slight grunt and stumbles down the hall, all too aware of Kershaw on his heels. It takes him three tries to get the stupid door open but the moment he does, Kershaw is grabbing him again. They undress each other right in front of the door, movements uncoordinated and periodically broken up by kisses that are leaving Tim's lips bruised. When he pushes Tim to his knees, Tim goes willingly. He fists his hand into Tim's hair, fingers tangled in it just like... like someone he used to love used to do. Tim closes his eyes, forces the memories out of his head and makes himself concentrate on making Kershaw come so hard that he forgets his own name.

There's no pretense in what they're doing. Tim stops just before Kershaw can come and smirks at the frustrated look on the man's face. He allows himself to be thrown onto the bed, turns onto his stomach and buries his face in his arms. He gestures blindly at his open bag when Kershaw asks if he has anything and then groans low and deep when Kershaw pushes two fingers into him, straight up to the knuckles without stopping. His hips rock back with each twist and push of Kershaw's fingers. He bites his lip hard to keep himself from begging, from pleading with Kershaw to just give it to him already. He's only ever begged for one person. He's not begging for anyone else.

He doesn't object when he's pushed over onto his back. He sprawls back, pushes himself up on his elbows and watches Kershaw through his eyelashes, licks his lips as he watches Kershaw slick the condom on. Kershaw's hands are shaking and he's staring at Tim like he's something unreal. Tim is annoyed to find himself flushing. He can't remember the last time that anybody looked at him like that. It's unsettling and he finds himself almost grateful when Kershaw grips his legs, hitches them up around his waist and pushes into Tim, slow and steady. He's big, stretching Tim wide open until Tim feels like he can't possibly take any more and then keeps going.

When he's in, all the way in, Tim scrabbles his hands at the sheets before gripping Kershaw's shoulders because he needs something to hold on to. He pants, drops his head back onto the pillows and moans happily when Kershaw starts to move, deep shoving thrusts that rock Tim up the bed. He covers Tim's body with his own, one arm planted on the bed to prevent all of his weight from dropping down onto Tim. He also takes advantage of the new position new closeness to kiss Tim again, deep and dirty just like every other kiss had been.

The dynamic has changed and Tim doesn't know if he's okay with it or not. He doesn't really care, though. He hasn't had sex in weeks and now he's getting sweaty, aching, probably going to feel guilty in the morning fantastic sex. It's one of his favorite kinds, to be honest. So he goes with it, digs his nails into Kershaw's shoulders, leaves welts, crushes their lips together until he can taste blood. Kershaw's hand closes around Tim's cock, strokes slow and kind of clumsy but it still feels fucking amazing, makes Tim arch his back and come with a wordless moan.

Kershaw groans, mumbles something that sounds like 'oh God' and a few other things that are filthy enough for Tim to be impressed with his vocabulary. Mixed into it is a few things Tim isn't so sure he wants to hear. Things he's heard from a lot of guys, none of whom meant it. He's not beautiful. He's not perfect. He's not amazing. He's none of those things and he doesn't want to hear it. Hearing his name, deep and guttural, is more comfortable. He's sweaty and aching and panting for breath, fucked wide open and sure to be feeling it for the next few days. That's a place and a state of being he actually wants to be in.

He hisses when Kershaw pulls out before closing his eyes. Between being drunk and now being sex drunk, he's closer to sleeping like the dead than he is to consciousness. He turns onto his side and then onto his stomach, melts into the bed and drifts away as he feels the bed shifting. Kershaw's probably leaving. Tim would say something but hey, he's drunk off his ass and catatonic from amazing sex. He's under no obligation to be social. Not that he'd know what to say if he was. He closes his eyes again, rolls his face into his pillow.

The last thing he's aware of before he falls asleep is a warmth against his back, a tentative touch of his hip followed by an arm around his waist and a whisper of his name.


End file.
